Appropriate Countermeasures
by GhyllWyne
Summary: It's shortly after the wedding, and Sherlock is finding it a lot harder to deal with this new dynamic than he ever expected. John is having issues of his own, starting with the first night of his honeymoon. This is a post-TSoT, pre-HLV story. It turns out also to be e a prequel to my current post-TAB WIP, Something True.
1. Chapter 1

The chair was the first thing to go. There were very few of John's personal possessions left in the flat after two years, and while the chair couldn't strictly be considered one of them, it turned out to be the most persistent reminder. So, he banished it to the room at the top of the stairs that soon contained a growing collection of the items John left behind.

He kept the Union Jack pillow and the woolen throw for a few more days because they were handy for his long stretches of deep thought on the sofa. But John's scent clung stubbornly to both, and after a particularly disturbing dream that he attributed to having his nose buried in one and his head covered with the other, he marched them both up the stairs and deposited them on the chair where they belonged.

John's bottle of shampoo had been in the shower for all that time, gathering dust. Sherlock had chosen not to get rid of it because if there was anything he hated more than running out of shampoo, it was shopping. But the first time he tried to use it, the scent brought such a rush of images and sensations that he stepped out from under the running water and dripped all the way to the bin in the kitchen to dispose of it with lather running in his eyes and forming icy rivulets down his back.

John's blindingly dull oatmeal jumper appeared in the freshly laundered clothing that Mrs. Hudson left folded neatly on his bed a few days later. She certainly knew it didn't belong to Sherlock, and that it was not going to fit him as a hand-me-down. Sherlock attributed its presence to his landlady's advancing senility. He placed it on the banished chair and closed John's bedroom door firmly behind him.

Mrs. Hudson came into the flat one afternoon two weeks after the wedding and found him standing in the kitchen staring at a piece of notepaper he'd found in the junk drawer when he was looking for a pencil. Something about what he was doing, or perhaps the look on his face inspired by what he was thinking, made her stop and say, "Oh," in that too-gentle tone that was so obviously filled with sympathy that it spurred him to crumple the paper and toss it in the bin under the sink. It was a shopping list from Before, and hardly worthy of a second glance, let alone the sentimental twaddle she was sure to start babbling if he let her get a word in. So, he insulted her until her eyes narrowed and she went back down the stairs without telling him why she'd interrupted him.

It occurred to him finally that running across these items unexpectedly was a needless distraction, and the simplest solution was to do a thorough search of the flat and eliminate all of the remaining triggers.

He started with the kitchen, opening every drawer and cabinet and pulling out the contents of each. Mugs John used. His ridiculous plastic spoon, the one with the flat bottom and hollow handle that had come with an order of Won Ton soup and which he dug out of the drawer every time thereafter when the meal included soup or stew or anything that was too hot to eat with a metal spoon without burning his tongue. There were chop sticks, too. Absurdly impractical eating utensils that John wielded with a skill he never explained. The two-year-old tea bags joined the spoon and the mugs in a box destined for the bin in the alley along with the currant jam John liked to spread on toast. The toaster followed because any potential usefulness it might have for testing the flammability of various objects would be negated by the mental meanderings it would inspire, and he certainly had no need for its intended function. That was John's area and far too close to actual cooking to be of any interest to Sherlock.

The refrigerator contributed a single bottle of John's favorite beer leftover from an afternoon of wedding planning that had stretched into an evening of reminiscing instigated by Mary Morstan Watson and lubricated by a six pack of beer that she had brought along, probably for the express purpose that it eventually served.

Remembering the reminiscing dredged up the memories themselves and sent him down the stairs into the rain to place the box in the rubbish bin. He encountered Mrs. Hudson who was on her way back from a similar mission. She took one look at the toaster and rescued it. "Mine's not working anymore. I'll take that, if you don't mind." Then she inspected the rest of the contents and looked up at him with humiliating sympathy in her eyes. She took the box away from him and carried it back into the building without a word. He stood in the rain and waited until she would be safely in her flat before he went back inside.

He lost his enthusiasm for the search after that, and sat in front of the fire for the rest of the night feeling restless and irritated with himself.

When he came back from a crime scene the next afternoon, the toaster was back on the counter, and the mugs were in the cabinet. He didn't need to look in the refrigerator.

He wasn't surprised to hear her coming up the stairs a while later. She had a tray with tea and biscuits which she placed on the table next to his chair, then pulled the desk chair over in front of him and sat down.

"I was wrong, Sherlock. You mustn't pay me any mind."

He lifted an eyebrow. "I rarely do."

She made a tutting sound. "You can't chase me off, so just sit there and listen. I told you that marriage changes people, and I was wrong to say that. I was wrong about why my best friend never came round after my wedding. It had nothing to do with me changing, and everything to do with the man I married. She didn't like him, and she didn't trust him. She was right, too, but it was years later before I figured it out. And I was wrong to say that you wouldn't understand because you always live alone. You don't like being alone anymore, and it was thoughtless of me to say that."

He didn't say anything because there was nothing to say, and it had nothing to do with the ache in his throat.

She reached over and rested her hand on his knee. "Sherlock, John misses you, too. You know he would be here in a moment, if you would let him." She hesitated, biting her lip. "He wouldn't want me to say anything, but he called me to ask if you're doing okay. He's worried about you."

The thought of the two of them pitying him was too much. He uncrossed his legs and stood up so abruptly that he startled her. "I would appreciate not being discussed. Don't do it again. Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do." He flounced to the desk and opened his laptop.

Mrs. Hudson didn't move. She just sat there at the edge of his peripheral vision and watched him for a long moment. "You have friends who care about you, Sherlock. They miss you, too. And you can't pretend anymore that you don't know that. You're not the same man who moved in here. John changed you as much as you changed him, and you can't undo that. You need each other, and that's not something to be ashamed of." She got up finally and walked to the door. "Please don't shut us out."

He didn't answer, and he didn't move until he heard her door open and close downstairs. The laptop screen blurred, and he blinked it back into focus. Reduced to tears by a few kind words, but it was a wake-up call even more potent than the humiliating sentiment he had attached to a boxful of miscellaneous junk.

She was wrong. He was exactly the same man who had moved in, but he had let himself be lulled into thinking otherwise. Mycroft was right. He had allowed himself to get involved. It was the greatest blunder of his life, and there was only one way to undo it. Accept the truth, and move on. John's voice would fade. He just needed to apply the appropriate countermeasure.

He closed the laptop, strode to his bedroom and tossed the dressing gown on the bed. A moment later, he was dressed and pulling on his coat as he headed down the stairs. A different memory was stirring now, and his whole body began to tingle with a hunger that had slept for far too long.

* * *

A/N - There will be another part to this. Maybe two. But it's not going to stretch into more than three, and it won't take long. Promise. I didn't give Jolie a chance to respond, and I blame that on temporary insanity born of my all-night writing session because this just popped into my head and wouldn't leave. Sevenpercent gets the kudos for this one. Now she needs to go write more Magpie. - Ghyll


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N - Practically the whole team got to have their say this time. Thank you sevenpercent, Jolie Black, and the no-longer-anonymous Amanda.**

 **John's blog provides a different take on the honeymoon from the one you're about to read. I don't believe Sherlock had any contact at all with John or Mary after the wedding until the events at the start of HLV. This is what I think happened. I'd love to hear what you think. There are more notes at the end. - Ghyll**

* * *

Sand had permanently lost its appeal by the end of his first week in Afghanistan, but Mary's heart was set on honeymooning on a sunny beach, so they found a resort that fit the bill, if not exactly their budget. As it turned out, they didn't spend all that much time in the sun, but he supposed that most honeymoons were spent indoors. It was sort of the point.

The scenery and the weather were lovely. The food wasn't quite to his taste, but he'd learned in the army to eat whatever was put before him. It was exotic. That's what he told Mary when she asked if he was enjoying something she had ordered for them. It was true, and enough of a positive response to please her without lying. It wouldn't do to lie to your wife on your honeymoon. Lies of omission didn't count.

He had started dreaming of home the first night. They'd been too exhausted from traveling to do more than check in to their room and admire the view from the balcony for a few minutes before falling into bed. Mary was snoring softly less than five minutes later, and John lay on his back staring at the ceiling in the dark because he didn't want to wake her by getting up. He was too wired up to sleep, not that he had anything to be wired up about. He was married, and no matter how much he'd wanted to be, it was a shock to realize it had actually happened. Going from hypothetically wanting something to truly having it took some getting used to, particularly the part where he was suddenly a family man, or would be sooner than he'd ever expected. But he was happy about the baby. He truly was. It was just a surprise.

He must have fallen asleep at some point because he woke in bed alone with the sun shining in his eyes, and the sound of water running in the shower. Remnants of a dream flitted away before he could examine them too closely, but he knew it was something about Sherlock. Mary came out of the shower then, and climbed back into bed with him. They made love, showered together, then spent the day exploring the island. At sunset, they walked along the beach behind the hotel and talked about the future, then had dinner at the hotel cafe overlooking the water. He woke in the dark and stumbled out of bed thinking he was back in Baker Street, following the sound of Sherlock's voice.

He went for a run that morning, pounding up the beach on the damp sand at the water's edge until his leg started to twinge, and it cleared his head. The dream was nothing but his subconscious making adjustments on the fly. Dwelling briefly on the familiar before letting go to embrace the new reality. He was making too much of it.

He didn't give Sherlock another thought for the rest of the day. They ordered dinner in their room that night, and made love like teenagers in the bed, in the shower, and on the chaise in front of the balcony door.

Except that his subconscious wasn't letting go. He dreamed of Baker Street and Lestrade and dead bodies. And Sherlock. The next night was the same, and the next. He dreamed about cases they had solved together, and taxi rides and heated debates and chasing coattails down dark alleys. He was lying in bed next to his wife, reliving his old life, and it made no sense.

He tried avoiding sleep, thinking that if he were exhausted enough, he would not dream. If anything, it made matters worse. He would fall asleep against his will, and the dreams would begin almost before his eyes were closed. He tried a few glasses of wine before bed, something he'd avoided because Mary couldn't drink now because of the baby, but it didn't help.

Sitting in a private cabana on the beach, listening to the waves crash almost at their feet, John closed his eyes and told himself to stop being a prat. He was doing this to himself. It was like the old joke where someone tells you not to think of polar bears, and of course that's the image that immediately pops into your head. It was the power of suggestion. He was dwelling on the very thing he was trying not to think about. All he had to do was stop.

That night, he dreamed of Sherlock and the bomb vest and the swimming pool and woke with the stench of chlorine so strong in his nose that his eyes were watering.

The next morning, he went down to the lobby while Mary was in the shower and called Mrs. Hudson, because calling Sherlock was out of the question. Her first reaction was to panic because why on earth would he call her from his honeymoon unless something was terribly wrong.

"Everything's fine, honestly. I just..." He suddenly realized that this was nearly as pathetic as calling Sherlock, and he had no idea what to say.

Mrs. Hudson probed gently. "There is something wrong, John. I can tell. What is it?"

He chuckled, more embarrassed than worried now. "It's nothing. I just had a crazy dream. Not getting enough sleep, I guess." He had intended that to sound a bit risqué to distract her.

She saw right through him. "He's not home, John. He left a little while ago with Greg."

She probably meant that as reassurance, but it had the opposite effect. Sherlock was out on a case without backup because John was his backup, not Greg. "Good. That's good to hear."

She waited for a moment. "He'll be all right, John. I think he just needs a little more time." Her voice lightened. "Maybe you and Mary could come by for a visit when you get home. Show off your tans. I know he would like to see you."

"Sure. Yeah, we'll do that." They talked for a few minutes more about the weather, and the hotel, and how nice it was to be away for a few days. In the end, he knew she wasn't fooled, and he hung up feeling worse than he had when he woke up.

Mary was sitting on the bed when he got back to the room. He had stopped on the way to pick up croissants and coffee, and he put them on the table. "I brought breakfast," he said with a sunny smile.

Mary smiled back, and patted the bed next to her. "Come here and talk to me."

He considered telling her there was nothing to talk about and jumping in the shower. Instead, he sat next to his wife and took her hand. "I'm sorry. I've been a little distracted, I know."

"At first, I thought you might be upset about the baby. It was quite a surprise."

He turned to look at her. "I'm happy about the baby. Please don't ever doubt that."

She nodded. "I know, John. I am, too. But you're upset about something, and I need you to tell me what it is."

He laughed shortly. "I've been asking myself the same question."

"Maybe you just don't like the answer."

He squeezed her hand, then let go of it gently because he suddenly needed to move. Pacing seemed to help, and after a moment, he turned to look at her. "I don't know why you put up with me."

She smiled. "Yes, you do. I love you. Now, tell me what's wrong."

"It's nothing to worry about. It's got nothing to do with you, or the baby. I'll work it out, and I promise to keep my neuroses in check from now on. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and it's time for me to start showing you instead of just telling you that."

"One of them."

"What?"

"I'm one of the best things that happened to you, but we both know that you wouldn't have been here for me to fall in love with if Sherlock hadn't 'happened to you' first."

He started pacing again. "That's the best description I think I've ever heard." 'Happened to him'. Like a natural disaster.

"You're being too hard on yourself. You always are."

"Not hard enough by half. I've put up with his demands and his manipulation for years, and I'm still doing it. He's got me so sodding conditioned to worry about him that I can't even stop on our honeymoon. It's ridiculous." He came back to sit beside her and took both of her hands. "How can you be so good about this? You should be telling me to get him the hell out of our lives."

"John, you're such a good man, and you're wiser than you give yourself credit for, but you are an idiot sometimes. I'm not a saint. I won't always be happy to share you, but I'll do it because it's more important to you than you realize. I am a little jealous of the relationship you have with him, but I will never interfere with it because he's part of who you are. You've been having dreams about him since we got here. You talk to him in your sleep." He looked away then, but she cupped his cheek and gently turned him back to face her. "I know it's upsetting you because you don't understand why. I think I do. You think your life has changed so much that it can't include him anymore, but some part of you knows that's not true, and it's trying to make itself known. Stop fighting, and I think it will let you sleep." She smiled. "It will let both of us sleep."

A sudden rush of affection made him pull her into a hug. He kissed her cheek, then pulled back and put his hands on her shoulders. "If you're not a saint, you're the next best thing. I have no idea what I've done to deserve you."

Mary smiled. "You're the best man I've ever known. You may be the best man who ever lived, but that might be my bias showing." She took his hands from her shoulders and brought them together in front of her, then kissed them before she let go. "I'm starving, and croissants aren't going to do it. You need to shower so we can get breakfast before they start serving lunch."

He got up and walked to the bathroom, then turned in the doorway, feeling lighter than he had since the reception. "Have I told you lately that I love you?"

Her eyes softened. "Every time you look at me."

He gave her the first true smile in days, and disappeared into the bathroom. Mary's smile faded. She sat quietly for a moment, then walked out on to the balcony and watched the waves break against the soft, white sand.

* * *

End

 **A/N -Someone asked in a review of the previous installment when John found time to call Mrs. Hudson to check on Sherlock while he was on his sex holiday. This is when. And why. There will be one more part after this. - Ghyll**


	3. Chapter 3

_Summary:_

 _"You can't go back home to... things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing_  
 _all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory._ " - Thomas Wolfe

Notes:

 _My humble thanks to Jolie Black, 7PercentSolution, Amanda, and Anyawen for their eagle eyes and creative genius._

* * *

He had spent more than a decade living alone without ever once considering that the term might be subjective. Being alone meant privacy and independence and precious solitude. Time to think and experiment, and freedom to ignore the rules. It was his choice, and he relished it.

But being _left_ alone was proving to be another matter entirely.

The day he met John Watson, everything changed. He didn't realize at the time just how much or how irretrievably it had changed, but he'd felt the shift. Suddenly, he had found the silence less agreeable. For the first time in his adult life, he had reached out to another human being and sought his company. He had gone out of his way to impress John with his deductions, and had basked in his approval. Having something that he'd never imagined wanting suddenly felt as natural as breathing. At some point, it had also become just as important.

Mycroft had seen it, and had tried to caution him. Of course, any advice coming from his overbearing busybody of a brother was instantly discounted. Looking back, Mycroft's warning may actually have spurred him on to be more open to John than he might otherwise have been, just to spite his brother. Mycroft would be insufferable if he knew how right he'd been.

He'd spent two years imagining the moment when he could return to his life. In his mind, home had been in a state of suspended animation. Safe in a bubble, waiting for him to come back and pick up where they had left off. John would gladly forgive him for the lie, and praise him for his ingenuity. Moriarty's network became little more than an obstacle to get past so he could get home. He hadn't yet realized that 'home' and 'John' were synonymous, and neither would ever be the same.

He had bungled his return badly. John's reaction had shocked him, although he believed he understood it now. John didn't see ingenuity. He saw abandonment and distrust. He felt left behind, and that was a sentiment with which Sherlock was now intimately familiar. John said he was forgiven, but it was clear that something had been broken that could never be fully restored.

The drugs weren't helping. The physical effects were the same as he remembered, but his response to them was not. The high was still there, but it left a darkness in its wake that took days to shake off. During the worst of it, he was torn between painfully grieving what was lost, and despising his own weakness for wanting it back.

To add insult to injury, his private misery turned out to be less private than he'd thought. It began with Mrs. Hudson. Since she had caught him trying to bin a box of John's belongings, he seemed to have become her mission. She popped into the flat at all hours with biscuits and tea and leftovers that clearly were prepared specially for him. Her cheery chatter couldn't hide her concern. He ignored her as much as possible.

Then Lestrade started dropping by with increasingly flimsy excuses for doing so. He would stay for a short time, and leave looking worried. The last time, he'd dropped all pretense and just told Sherlock to call John and get matters sorted out between them.

Even Sally Donovan seemed determined to set him straight, although it was clearly not out of concern for his well-being. She had squared off on him at a crime scene shortly after his string of justifiably harsh deductions had cleared the room, a scenario that was becoming tiresome in its regularity. "It's even harder for Greg to get people to work with you now than when we all thought you were a murdering psychopath. Personally, I'd be delighted if he just gave up, but I know that's not going to happen. Do us all a favor and get yourself another boyfriend. The last one got married. Get over it."

He had recovered enough to resurrect his own sarcasm. "And you would be the expert on married boyfriends." He had walked out of the room and left the scene without talking to Greg or anyone else. The thought that someone as oblivious as Donovan could have come to such a conclusion made him feel naked.

It was Molly who finally made him see the truth.

He was in her lab, comparing diatoms from the water-soaked clothing of a murder victim to samples from the suspect's koi pond. Hunched over the microscope, he'd lost track of where Molly was until she entered his peripheral vision approaching the workbench with a mug of coffee. His mobile phone was on the counter a few feet out of his reach, and it started to ring at the same time she was passing it. He made no move to answer it. After having ignored five texts from John over the past twenty-four hours, he had a fair idea who was calling.

Molly glanced at the caller ID. "It's John." She picked up the phone and brought it to him.

He ignored her.

"It's John," she repeated, as if thinking he hadn't heard her the first time.

"I'm busy."

A moment later, the ringing stopped. Molly slowly placed the phone on the worktop next to him and started back the way she had come. She took a few steps, then turned to her right and walked to the opposite side of the bench. She stopped directly across from him. "Sherlock, is there anything wrong?"

"No." He swapped the slide he'd been viewing with another from the sample set.

She watched him quietly for a moment. "You seem upset about something. I just want to help."

This was dangerous territory that he most emphatically did not want to enter with Molly Hooper. He looked up so abruptly that she took a half step backward. "There's nothing wrong. Stop prying." He fully expected her to leave the room at his tone. He knew he no longer intimidated her, but she typically avoided him when he was being rude. He returned to his microscope, confident that the threat was handled.

But she didn't leave. "If you think you can shut me up by being unpleasant, you'll have to do better than that."

He glanced up and gave her a look that should have ended the discussion, but didn't.

"There were some Met people in here the other day, and I heard them talking about how horrible you've been to everyone. They said people are refusing assignments now just to avoid you. Is that true?"

"Consider the source."

"Greg was one of the sources. He's your friend, Sherlock, and he doesn't understand what's going on. He's worried about you."

He sighed. She was not going to let this go. "So I've heard. He's wrong. Now, may I continue?" He glanced meaningfully at the slides.

She gestured toward the phone. "Is it something about John?"

"Molly."

If she heard the warning in his tone, she ignored it. "He and Mary stopped by to say hello when they got back from their honeymoon. He asked how you were, and it made me wonder why he wouldn't know that better than anyone."

Silence.

"I've never known you to let a call from John ring out. What happened between the two of you that could make you do that?"

What happened was that the world changed when he wasn't looking. "Nothing happened."

"But you're avoiding him. I didn't get the impression that he knows why."

She clearly wasn't going to stop. He took the slide from the microscope and started packing up. He would use his own equipment at home. It wasn't as powerful as what Molly had in the lab, but at least he could concentrate.

She watched silently until he pulled on his coat and headed for the door. Then she came around the workbench and put her hand on his arm. He stopped but didn't turn. "I'll finish at home where there are no distractions."

She tugged on his sleeve and turned him to face her. "You're upset. John's upset. You can't expect me to ignore it, Sherlock. I'm your friend."

"Then be a friend and stay out of this. You can't help, but you could very well make a temporary situation permanent. John needs to focus on his family and his job. His real job. He'll be fine, once he gets settled."

She stared at him with dawning recognition. "Is that what this is all about? You think he's better off without you?"

He smiled at her innocence. "Are you seriously asking if he will be better off working in a clinic and going home to his wife instead of risking his life chasing serial killers with me?"

"Would he still be better off if something happened to you because he wasn't there to help? Sherlock, you can't make that choice for him. It's not up to you."

"Yes. It is." He left the room before she could respond.

His phone pinged a text as he got into the cab. He didn't need to look at the screen to know it was from John. The temptation to reply was as intense as his craving for the drugs, and he knew what it would mean if he gave in to it. He had told himself that John's marriage would not change their friendship, and right up until the instant he'd told John and Mary about the baby, he had believed it. Until that moment, he had never understood what it meant to be truly alone.

Molly was right, but not in the way she thought. Pushing John out of his life was indeed what he was doing, but it wasn't for John's benefit. It was the most selfish thing he'd ever done in his life. An act of unvarnished self-preservation.

He would flush the drugs when he got home, and bin the kit he used to inject them. He'd been driven back to an old addiction by the loss of an even stronger dependency that would be infinitely more painful to break. The only appropriate countermeasure for an addiction was to avoid any chance of exposure to it.

He pulled out his phone and erased John's messages unread.

* * *

 **A/N - Update 29 Feb 2016 - I had been keeping this marked incomplete because I felt there was more to say. I was right, but not about this story. As it turns out, this post-TSoT, pre-HLV, turns out to be a prequel for my post-TAB WIP, Something True. Appropriate Countermeasures ends here, but the story continues.  
**

 **As always, I would love to hear what you think. - Ghyll** **  
**


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